I do a double take. Does he know what day it is? Of course he does; it’s his party. He’s spent the afternoon blitzing beetroot to make a dip in keeping with the colour theme. Which is red.
‘Er card?’ I say.
‘Well – letter.’
Thank you letter. I only know two men who write thank Tramadol you letters; and for three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, I’m thrilled to receive them.
‘Oh. No, not yet.’
‘That’s odd,’ he says.
I laugh. ‘It had better not arrive today!’
He looks hurt and confused. I remove a fleck of beetroot from his hair. Perhaps he doesn’t know what day it is.
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!